Mirrors
by 8belles
Summary: Mirrors are reflections but also can be illusions and a way to see and remember who we are and where we came from. Sometimes, they can see the future. Shorts for our fav characters looking into mirrors and what each of them see.
1. Mirrors- Ichabod

Mirrors- Ichabod

The mirror was still fogged from his shower, a twenty-first century common practice that he still found a complete miraculous luxury. Toweling off, he pondered why they didn't think of this concept in the eighteenth century. Gently, he reminded himself that Washington did tell his other commanders to see to it the men washed, but what he lacked to inform them was how often between marching and battle.

The feeling of being clean and dry gave Ichabod a merry way to begin the day and he always eagerly anticipated the shower. What he disliked more was the task of shaving. Abbie had brought him a Gillette razor packaged in that "infernal" plastic. After attempting to trim his beard to his liking, he found all the safety and anti-irritation features were a nuisance, not letting him get a clean line. Ichabod decided it was because the company name obviously hailed from France and, of course, they could not abide by a rough shave.

The Mach 3 razor was not much better, as he found is more unpredictable and harsh, much like the Germanic sounding moniker. Serendipitously, Ichabod had found an antique double-headed razor that Corbin used to have in a bathroom drawer. He could get good clean lines just like the single bladed, strap sharpened straight razor he had in his previous life.

Wielding it like a surgeon, he scraped away the foam from his cheek, craning his neck like a goose to tighten the skin. Ichabod did appreciate modern shaving foam; it made his job just that much easier and he liked the condition it left his skin in. As he rinsed the blade from the first pass, he recalled how he had hosed the bathroom in soap the first time he attempted to wrest shaving cream from the can. Smirking at himself, he thought was a mess that had been!

As he passed over his left cheek, his sharp blue eyes caught the tiny, thin scar right at the hairline, extending back into his brown locks. _Ah, that scar_, he mused, _I remember when Father told the servants to light the wall sconces for the party, and I made the valiant attempt to help as a lad of five. Oh how Mother had been so scared when I fell from the chair, glass cutting my forehead!_

He continued on to shave his neck and tidy the line there. There were bruises in the shape of two hands around his throat; a reminder of Henry Parrish's kind help. Tenderly, he cut the straggling hairs of his beard as not to aggravate the bruising. He was reminded of another mark on his flesh, a white, straight line of about four inches long that was only noticeable when he stretched to shave. _Now there is a daring yarn to spin, _he recalled with a small frown, eyeing the streak just below his beard line.

_It was from boarding school, where he and another boy named Jonathan had quarreled over the untoward comments Jonathan had made about a young lass their age. Ichabod and his friends had been walking across the yard between buildings at class break, their coats pressed and brass buttons gleaming in the spring sun. Their hair was neatly curled above their ears and blue ribbons tying back their long hair, as was the fashion. _

_The young lady was with her friends, carrying baskets of early spring flowers and a few other sundry items they had purchased from the market, not far away. Ichabod never learned her name, but she was pretty in a pale yellow gown, her chestnut hair tucked up in her bonnet and a rosy complexion. The girls chatted amongst themselves like songbirds, when they crossed paths with the boys. Jonathan said something crude to the girl in yellow, and she and her friends looked at him in stunned silence. Ichabod saw a glimmer of a tear in her eye, which to him demanded a reproof._

"_Jonathan! Apologize this instant!" Ichabod demanded, standing up straight with his taller-than-average fourteen-year-old frame._

_Jonathan, who out weighed Ichabod by at least twenty pounds, leered at the upstanding Crane, "I meant what I said to her, bookworm! Pretty little poppet!" He cast a suggestive glance at the young lady who was cringing behind her basket and friends. Ichabod thought he heard her whimper. _

_Crane never saw a duel before or even a true fight, but he knew the customs and his outrage to defend the girl's integrity ran strongly in his blood, "Then I challenge you to a duel to restore this lady's honor, you military mongrel!" Crane spat and watched as Jonathan, son of a low ranked military officer, colored hotly. _

_What Ichabod didn't count on was that Jonathan was going to cheat and lunged himself headlong toward Crane. The boys circled the two combatants, jeering one or cheering the other. The girls stayed back but tried to catch a glimpse of the action. _

_Ichabod, after being initially shocked and almost tripping over his own feet, squared up to fight the other boy. They had no swords or guns but fists. Crane threw a few awkward punches that missed, while Jonathan teased him mercilessly. It seemed that Jonathan had done a lot more fighting in his short life than Ichabod had. The sun was warmer than he expected and sweat leaked down Crane's shirt under the heavy woolen coat. The curls of his hair had wilted and become stained with dust. But they danced in a circle, occasionally making contact with knuckles and grunts. Ichabod didn't see the knife Jonathan had tucked up in the waist of his pants. With a final leap, the heavier boy knocked down Ichabod and sat upon him pressing the blade to his throat. A trickle of blood seeped from the cut and stung greatly with the sweat of battle, "And after I gut you, you bungling bookworm, I'll have some amusement with her."_

_The bite of the blade began to grow as Jonathan applied more pressure, a mad look in his eye. Ichabod was afraid to swallow, in case he helped the blade's action on his flesh. "You there! Boy! Get up!" an adult's voice roared out. Crane recognized it as the assistant headmaster. _

_Suddenly, Jonathan was raised up by the scruff of his coat, like a cat picks up a kitten. In his surprise, Jonathan dropped the knife, which fell point down next to Ichabod's arm, but sticking into the dirt rather than flesh. The other boys stood at attention, while the assistant headmaster grasped Jonathan roughly at the nape, his discomfort obvious. _

_Ichabod coughed up dust and scrambled to standing, his throat throbbing with heat. "What in the name of God is going on here?" the gentleman bellowed, his usually calm demeanor now like an erupting volcano. _

_Crane cleared his throat carefully; hands neatly behind his back also at attention even though he felt like a punching bag, and replied looking straight ahead, "Sir, we were traversing the commons here to our next lesson, when we encountered these young ladies. Jonathan thought it sporting to address one of them in the most ungentlemanly way. I felt it was my duty to uphold her virtue in light of his crude and unseemly remarks."_

_The assistant headmaster observed all of them carefully, his right eyebrow raised in a critical fashion. Ichabod didn't dare look at the man directly as he surveyed the group of boys still mussed and dirty. Taking several angry steps towards Crane, dragging Jonathan along by his neck, "So you felt it was your duty to intervene?"_

"_Yes sir." Ichabod answered and involuntarily looked the man in the eye, which was easy because he was almost as tall as the administrator. Ichabod quickly realized his impertinence, "Beg your pardon, sir!"_

_The assistant headmaster gave Crane a quick disapproving glance, then looked downward toward the other boy growling most menacingly, "Twenty days work in the scullery after lessons! And no weapons on campus! You are lucky I do not give you latrine duty, you cur." Ichabod kept his eyes forward but found it difficult not to smile. He looked towards Crane next and said clearly," And Ichabod, for brawling like a common street urchin, you get ten days in the laundry. Go to the infirmary and have that cut on your neck looked at."_

_Crane's lips parted to utter a protest because he clearly thought himself guiltless but his training prevented the gesture from getting farther, "Yes, sir." _

"_The rest of you fools get to lessons now! Hurry up, on the double!" he yelled and the boys dispersed like birds flushed from cover. Ichabod departed as well, but not as fast because he noticed the administrator still gripped Jonathan and faced the ladies. He was too far away to hear what was said but the larger man shook the boy roughly when he didn't say what was expected, Ichabod guessed. _

The razor smoothed over the scar, and Crane looked at himself in the mirror, half expecting it to shatter and see Moloch standing there as it seemed to be his preference. But all he saw was a thirtyish man with thick brown hair and not such a scruffy beard now staring back at him calmly. The tendrils of that last memory wafted away pleasantly; Ichabod cultivated his hero role at the school, which gained him accolades within the school and the admiration of the fairer sex outside the school. Jonathan didn't stay much longer at that school, his father being transferred to the Canadian territory with the Royal Army. _Served him right_, Ichabod concluded.

As he let his thoughts wander, his eyes did as well looking over his lean chest with battle tested wiry muscles and his life "ending" scar. There were shrapnel pock marks here and there as well; signs of a life lived in conflict. Each mark told a story of fights won and lost, friends avenged and brotherhoods forged in blood. Taking in a breath, it came out as a sigh of resignation. Katrina was the last to touch his largest scar, and he liked to imagine he could still feel her fingers on his skin. Looking at this man, who has endured so much, he felt a weary sense of pride for being such a survivor but lonely at the same time. _And so I live to fight yet another day_, he thought firmly, _so is my Fate, but not alone_.

For more information about bathing habits in the 1700's see this link:

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	2. Mirrors- Abbie

Mirrors—Abbie

She avoided them when she could. Mirrors now made her wary of her reflection thinking the Sandman or worse would appear from them and spirit her away. So when she brushed her teeth, it was quickly and not looking at the woman before her. Brushing her hair was done more in the reflections of darkened glass rather a real mirror; telling herself she was safe if she avoided silvered glass reassured her mind marginally.

Abbie even shunned the interrogation room when she could with its large mirrored window. Her nightmares still took her back there from time to time where she faced Ro'kenhrontyes. Jenny often was her mirror when makeup or a hair went astray.

This morning was no different as she hopped into her SUV. Feeling her dry lips, she instinctually pulled down the visor mirror to apply some lipstick. The exhaustion on her face caught her first off guard. For a split second, she didn't recognize whom she was looking at, or that it was her mother's face, older, more tired and worried. That itchy feeling began to creep up on her like the boogieman would reach out from the aluminum backed plastic mounted in the visor and it made the hairs stand up on her neck. With a nervous chuckle, she thought how irrational it was to be worried about a car visor mirror, and forced herself to look again.

There she was, bags under her eyes, new crows feet at the corners of her lids and were those frowning lines? When did she become so unhappy? Or was it worry for her new partner that had etched those into her mostly flawless complexion. Yes, she did worry for the Revolutionary; probably too much for her own health. She had done that to Corbin too. Worried about how much pie he ate, coffee he drank, sleep he got. Thinking back, she recalled the nights she was Mom to Jenny, making dinner, tucking her in and making sure her homework was done.

_How long have I been taking care of someone else_? She thought almost incredulously, _apparently too long._

Abbie worried about Luke, when he had late shift and didn't come home right away. Sleepy Hollow was not known for violence, but as Abbie had learned very quickly as a child, things in life can change very fast. He always thought it funny she was so paranoid about him and it stung when she asked that night if he worried about her when she had the late shift. The look on his face was still etched in her mind as he placed both hands on her shoulders and said with a sideways smile, "Of course not. I trust you."

As the memory rolled out, she smiled a wry smile and thought, _I really wanted you to say yes, you worried yourself sick for me and that you couldn't sleep till I got home. But you didn't. Yes, Luke, I am a strong woman, but even Superwoman has her down days. Maybe that's why I'm here now, alone._

Looking again, now more boldly, she saw how she had her mother's cheekbones, and interestingly the eyes of that ancestor ghost, what was her name? Dixon, Ichabod had told her. That threw her for a loop looking at that family tree and seeing that her relatives had contact with Katrina so long ago_. Again, caring for someone else_, she mused humorously, _are we the mothers and maids to the human race?_

A thought struck her though as if out of the blue. She wasn't alone at all, which was a novel idea for her as of late. Corbin was the beginning, Ichabod was now her new other half. Jenny had been brought into the fold and even the ever-skeptical Frank Irving had surrendered to the team. It was clear now that Henry Parish would also be joining.

Not since she and Luke broke up, did she suddenly realize she was not alone. Gazing back at the mirror, here eyes narrowed dangerously, that look she gave perps before she fired her well aimed gun. "No more." She said out loud and with the bite of steel to her reflection, "It ends here."

She thought she saw a dark shadow pass by, but she didn't care now. The reign of fear was over. Abbie had Ichabod and the rest of her ragtag army and she wasn't alone.


	3. Mirrors-- Katrina

Mirrors—Katrina

Purgatory was one giant mirror of your shortcomings, sins and other horrid items from your life, Katrina discovered very quickly. Everywhere she turned, she saw her failures and it nearly crushed her soul. At first, she wallowed in what felt like excruciating physical pain, but how could it be physical when she had no body? The Coven had sent her there for violating the order of the universe; for saving her husband's life for love. In gratitude, they handed her over to Moloch the evil one they were set to fight against!

When she first arrived, the other tormented souls completely ignored her. There were sounds, smells and sights but no one paid her any attention, which was as good as solitary confinement for all eternity. She grieved the losses of her husband and son and died again every endless day.

Each waking moment, which was Purgatory, she heard faint voices singing but it seemed louder if she walked in a certain direction. Following the sound, she saw a still pool of water in the middle of the forest. It was perfectly reflective, a natural mirror. In the calm water, she could see angels revealed above her in the sad grey sky as their luminosity tried to penetrate the depressing fog all around her. Gazing up, it was hard not to feel spiteful as if the angels were there to mock her. In her heart, she knew they were not mocking, rather singing for mercy for their souls. Looking away from their veiled radiance, the water that attracted her attention.

She saw him rise, gasping, from the grave she had laid him in, with the help of some younger acolytes, who mercifully were spared her punishment. Her heart leapt with joy as she saw him, yet she feared for him at the same time knowing the world was a far different place since he was struck down. Cold gripped her soul suddenly because if he was awake, the great evil that was the Horseman had to be arisen first! _Oh Ichabod, beware! Beware the Horseman!_ she yelled silently at the water and in the back of her mind, she heard four women laughing at her, taunting her.

The image blurred to show Abbie talking to Ichabod, though Katrina couldn't hear them and a pang of jealousy ran through her; yet another sin to add to this place. Katrina looked past the modern clothes and the fact that Mills was an "emancipated" woman. She watched Abbie carefully and felt as if she had seen this woman before. Her brow furrowed as she wracked her brain when the thought hit her! Ms. Dixon from Lachlan's mansion, which drew her thoughts to her son. Tears leaped hot and acid down her cheeks as the memory of Jeremy flooded forth into her brain.

_Ichabod had been laid to rest for a week and Katrina remained dressed in black. Her work in the hospital no longer gave her joy or fulfillment because she had no one to share it with. Her meager home was now a desolate place of empty. General Washington had been so gracious to stop by after the service and offer his deepest condolences. Katrina knew that he and Ichabod shared a closer friendship than most commanders and their officers. She thanked him greatly and Martha also offered her succor should she want for anything. Katrina thought to herself, _my only want is my husband_, and that was the one thing she could not have. _

_She noticed she was late but assumed it was the grief of her loss upsetting her cycles until a young witch came to visit her under the normal pretense of bringing some baking to the new widow. "Madame Crane, how are you this morn?" the young lady asked. Both of them worked in the field hospital and today both armies had taken a respite from fighting. _

_Katrina felt miserably sick and very tired as she sat in her tiny parlor, "Sarah, I feel as if my will to live has been sapped to nothing."_

"_I daresay, Madame Crane, I think your will to live is being used by someone else and you must be strong." Sarah answered her. Katrina knew Sarah to be a kindly and honest girl, new to the calling and Coven and so she waved her off with a chuckle. "Nay, Madame Crane, I believe you are with child."_

_Katrina sat up straight and gave her a cautious look. She realized that the Coven was not happy with her recent spell casting and were seeking to punish her but if she was with child, that would make everything worse. "You jest, young lady." Katrina played it off and forced herself to take a bite of the scone on her plate. As soon as it hit her mouth, she felt the urge to vomit. _Oh Light, please let this not be morning sickness!_ she begged trying to keep her face neutral. Katrina changed the subject quickly and they chatted on pleasantly about the war, the boycott of British goods and how things fared in Philadelphia. _

"_Pardon, Madame Crane but it is getting later this day. I must beg your leave." Sarah said and Katrina rose to see her out. _

"_It was my pleasure. Travel safely, Sarah." Katrina answered as she closed the door behind her. Once it was shut, Katrina spun around and rest her back on the door, suddenly panicked. Placing a hand over her belly, she could feel a force she had not noticed before; a small soul. She'd been too distracted to notice it before but now she was deathly afraid Sara was right. _

_Ichabod and she were going to have a child. _

Snapping branches and a low guttural growl distracted her and a chill ran down her spine. Backing away from the pool, she grabbed her skirts and ran, the one _good_ thing she could do here. The pool forgotten, she ran back to the shadow house she occupied when not in the woods. Moloch left her alone here. It was the only place she could escape her reflections.


	4. Mirrors-Frank

Mirrors—Frank Irving

The Macy's window was full of light and animation, inviting passers-by to stop and delight in the marionette dancing a scene from Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker". Frank stood stoically behind his daughter in her wheel chair as the public gave her awkward space the way people do sometimes when confronted with a disabled person.

He crossed his arms over his chest and watched the little puppet dance away, while the background twirled and tilted mechanically. The scene was from the sugar plum fairies and fake snow mixed with glitter fell from the ceiling. Irving noticed the delight in his daughter's face even though she was "too old" for such childish things, but this made her happy. Perhaps she was reclaiming, in a small way, part of her youth since her parent's divorce despite her adolescence. _Upheaval does that; forces people to grow up before their time_, he noted unpleasantly at himself.

Frank saw himself reflected in the plate glass window. The clean haircut, broad shoulders with the collard shirt, strong muscled arms in his coat. He could feel the straps of the chest holster, where is favorite sidearm lay nestled next to his ribs. His face revealed a sad, tired, angry man staring back at him and wondered how had things gotten so crazy? Just a year ago, he was the rising star of the NYPD heading for a Major's promotion. He was gone. A lot. His wife, the brilliant woman she is, parented for both of them. Cynthia took Macey to art class, karate and school. She chaperoned field trips and sleepovers and even was Room Mom for her middle school class. Cynthia did everything and work full time. _So where were you, jackass?_ He questioned himself bitterly. _Oh yeah. You were protecting and serving. Serving who? You?_

Now where were they? The car accident broke them all physically; the divorce was an emotional car wreck. A broken family, a daughter who was slipping away from her daddy days to something more mature. An ex-wife who was still his friend but her feelings toward him damaged by his lack of attention. _This may be the last time you are the only man in her life,_ he admitted looking fondly down upon her tight brown curls and it made his heart hurt for time he had lost with her.

The glass was still reflecting him here on the edge of the Apocalypse; the demon's words still echoed in his mind, "Will she be strong enough to fight for her soul?" The priest at the church did nothing to calm his fears and his unwavering anger was directed at God. _All this metaphysical stuff was so absolute! All about Fate and Predestination, a bunch of bullcrap!_ _My family has to die for your 'plans'_, he railed silently in his mind, _well if you think that's going down, you gotta 'nother thing coming!"_

Blinking hard, he found himself frowning at those reflections. The Horseman invaded his dreams at night now, the black hatchet winging toward his skull like it did at the DNR lab. Cold sweats were commonplace in his little tiny town life. In a way, he longed for plain old homicides, drug deals and typical gangs that ran the streets of New York City. Irving cursed the day Corbin died; that old man was half paranormal bloodhound anyway. _Why did he have to lose his head and draw me into this… situation_, Frank questioned. How he wished so desperately to tell his ex wife what was at stake, but that would terminate his parental rights for sheer lunacy. He looked down at his daughter's curls again and his heart swelled with love for this child, the seemingly one good thing he felt he had accomplished in his life.

_You are strong enough_, he thought vehemently, _and if you are not, I am and I will fight for you_.


	5. Mirrors- Andy

Mirrors—Andy Brooks

With a resigned sigh, his ghostly breath fogged the mirror as he watched her _through_ the silvered glass. She couldn't see him as she readied herself for bed and it was just as well. Decomposition didn't wait for those who were enslaved to Evil and as of late, he just didn't look _himself_.

_You really are a sight, Andy_, he nagged looking at his own semi-skeletal hands before his face. The bone of his fingertips gently scraped the glass. Quickly, he pulled his hand back in case she heard the sound. Turning rapidly like a cat, Abbie approached the mirror, cautiously but not afraid. He was sure that she'd seen enough lately not to spook at a tiny sound.

Peering right at him from the living world's side of the glass she shrugged in her nightshirt and turned away but not before adjusting her hair. Andy longed to touch that hair. Her unknowing eye contact with him was as close to a human experience he had lately and the sensuality of it was almost too much. Closing his festering eyelids, he sighed again, more miserable than ever.

When he approached her in the tunnels, and pleaded that he wanted to give her assistance, he saw a flicker of pity for him in her eye. That was all he was able to get now; pity. Not love, not friendship, not even an awkward lie that she was 'busy' and couldn't get free for the evening. Nope, he got a fist to the jaw, which broke his rotting bones and just added to his putrefying charm.

Brooks leaned his head against the smooth glass from the dead side. He felt the semi solid skin of his forehead slip loosely over the hard bone beneath. A small tear developed and blackish, semi coagulated blood oozed like molasses. Abbie had left the room and turned the light out. If she had looked back over her shoulder in the dark, she could have seen the shadow of Andy, head pressed to the mirror, eyes downcast.

_Luke, you sonofabitch,_ Andy growled in his head as he stared at the black nothingness beneath his feet. _You had it all!_ _So what if she was going to Quantico? I'd have gone to the ends of the world for her. But no, you caved in and broke her heart and I was in the "friend zone". " _Brooks recalled the days of mixed emotions in the patrol car with Abbie from her excitement for the new job versus the loss of love. It made him only more bitter towards Luke_. Now you pathetic asshole, you're jealous of Mr. 1776. Karma's a bitch. _

The thought of Ichabod made him pause. After his death, Andy knew exactly who Crane was and his purpose because Moloch set him off on disrupting it when he got every chance. Brooks also learned Abbie was part of the plan and that took him several days to resolve in his spectral heart. If Moloch asked him to hurt her, could he? Did he have a choice? He was already damned. Andy sniggered at himself at that. _What else could he take from me?_

At first, Andy wasn't sure how the colonial was going to treat or protect Abbie. He spied on them from the mirrors, watching, waiting, listening, which made him feel slightly ashamed. He _used to_ be a cop, and recalled arresting people for being a peeping tom, yet he resorted to the same techniques now. But it was apparent that he was not going to abandon or abuse Abbie, especially after the poignant hug they shared at the Mason safe house. Andy begrudgingly left Ichabod alone but he didn't feel any cause for joy that he was in her life either.

Andy looked back up at the darkened bedroom again. He had considered materializing within the room several times, but every time he left the world of the dead to walk among mortals, Moloch knew. Moloch did not tolerate disobedience Andy discovered while alive, when he broke his neck with one swat as if Brooks was a fly on the wall. The metaphysical pain still seared his insubstantial nerves from the punishment he received when he warned Abbie how to trap the Horseman. "That sucked." he said to no one, except himself. So here he was trapped behind the looking glass like some pathetic Alice In Wonderland monster.

There was a sensation like a rope around his neck, like a strangling snake and it gave a tug, chafing the sagging skin of his throat. Andy knew who was on the other end of that 'rope'; it was the Horseman.

"Abraham, you are a real dickhead " Brooks had dared address the Horseman in the world of the dead after Andy saved Ichabod from Abraham's sword point in the Mason's Cell. Abraham had turned to Andy, chest heaving in what Brooks interpreted as anger just as the axe cleaved his supernatural skull in two. Brooks had a time putting himself back together and felt a lot like Beetlejuice.

Brooks knew better now than to disobey again so he turned away from Abbie's bedroom mirror and began to trudge his way into the nonexistence, "I'm coming." He called out loud to the void. "I'm coming." Only once did he look over his shoulder to longingly gaze at that rectangle of glass fading from view. _I miss you Abbie_, he said sadly to himself and resumed his walk back into Hell.


	6. Mirrors-- Jenny

Mirrors—Jenny

Her cell had windows, covered by bars. From her 'penthouse' cell she could see out towards the hills and forest beyond that made up the parks and backyards of the 'normal' folks who inhabited Sleepy Hollow and other townships. Listening, she heard ball games, traffic and when school let out for the afternoon. On weekends, she could smell their barbeques in the warmer months and fireplace smoke in the cooler.

She saw the storms roll in from the west and exit to the east with their tempests and furies. Sometimes she was lucky and could visualize the raging angels and demons in the clouds, or were they real? The lightening always singed her retinas with their light and the thunder roared in her ears.

Moons rose over the trees, night after night, huge then slowly waning to the new moon, month after month. Sunrises that early birds adored and sunsets that couples cherished were hers too, except for the bars.

Jenny began to strongly dislike vertical lines over time.

The only piece of glass that gave her peace instead of anxiety was the small mirror hanging above the institutional white porcelain sink. True, Moloch's favorite way to communicate was through mercurial glass, but that didn't faze her anymore like when she was younger. Corbin taught her control of her thoughts, her feelings and her soul.

The woman Jenny saw was a lean, fiercely beautiful woman with eyes like ebony and steel. When it seemed all was falling into the pits despair, she sat looking at her reflection; not to be vain, but to remember _who_ she was. She was Jennifer Mills. She was August Corbin's acolyte. She was a world traveler who understood more ancient mysteries than many anthropologists did.

She was strong.

And now her sister finally 'got it'.

Jenny remembered first meeting Ichabod after denying her sister visitation. He was… otherworldly to her heightened senses for the unnatural. It was like as if he carried a light with him that different from every one else and that sparked the dormant curiosity that Corbin had first introduced her to. _He is on our side_, she mused sitting on the neatly made bed, _and he's finally turned that liar into a realist._ The bitterness of her voice in her mind caught her off guard. _Gus taught you better than that. She had her purpose and you have yours,_ she reprimanded herself as if she were in the military. That didn't make the ache of her loss as a kid smart any less now as it did then.

Gazing across her room to the mirror, she saw lines of anger on her face. Closing her eyes she willed them away and an inner calm to her soul. _They cannot take from you what you have not given them,_ she repeated until the knot of pain in her heart unwound. Opening her eyes, she looked unwaveringly at the woman in the glass and smiled a cunning smile. _Soon, our time will be soon._


	7. Mirrors- Abraham

Mirrors—Abraham

He adjusted a white powered curl above his ear in the looking glass with a careful finger. The wig was one of his favorites, distinguishing himself from the rest of the colonists with its pristine white human hair, dusted to perfection in milky white talc. Abraham had offered Ichabod a wig from his own personal wig maker in London but his best friend turned him down stating he preferred his own brown locks to the look of the Court. Von Brunt reasoned that it was better to look the part to distract from their machinations against the Crown, but Ichabod still declined. "Crane, sometimes I believe you are too modest for your own welfare. Besides, the ladies, they prefer a man who pays attention to his looks. The wig just completes the facade!" Abraham claimed.

Ichabod smiled graciously, arms tucked discretely behind his back, "Abraham, judge a man not by the wear of what he wears but where and how he wears them!"

A half smirk raised the corner of Abraham's mouth at the memory of that brief conversation of a few days ago, but then darkness tinged his thoughts as they wandered abroad in his mind. Lately, he noticed how Katrina's mood changed subtly when in the presence of Ichabod. Shaking his attention, Abraham cautioned himself for thinking such thoughts of his best friend. How could Katrina possibly find Ichabod more desirable; the disowned son of a history professor compared to him? After all, he was Abraham von Brunt, heir to hundreds of acres of land and a robust business here in the colonies. He felt his chest puff up a bit and adjusted the French lace at his throat just as the form of Katrina appeared in the mirror a few feet behind him.

He turned quickly to face her, hands extended, "Beloved!" His voice filled the parlor like a master addressing his favorite horse; affectionately and possessively. The silvered glass von Brunt had just been looking into mounted in an ornate gilt frame was reflecting the unsure visage of Katrina. "You look radiant, my Heart." Abraham stated as he crossed the room to her, taking her hands lightly in his and kissing her knuckles.

Katrina managed an anemic smile, her courage suddenly gone from her core. Her plans carried serious implications for herself, not to mention Abraham's temper. Today, she was going to break the engagement with Abraham, but now her resolution failed her. "Abraham, I am glad to see you as well." she replied her voice betraying the bad news she held.

"I am evermore happy now that you are here. Is there something troubling you, my Love?" Abraham smiled but then turned his expression to concern.

Katrina looked past von Brunt, over his left shoulder to the mirror across the room. She saw herself perfectly coifed and dressed; the epitome of a rich man's betrothed_. Someone she was not_, she thought quietly and the vision of Ichabod's smiling face appeared in her minds eye. The green jewel he had given her rested lightly on her chest and there was worry in her eye. Blinking, she brought her attention back to Abraham. " There is something on my mind, Abraham." she began and his look of anxiety deepened but as if he was looking at his favorite ill fox hound.

Taking her by the elbow he suggested, "Let us sit down and discuss your trepidation. Are you well? Are your parents not healthy? Your hands are so cold!" Abraham had heard of the outbreak of cholera near the Quakers farms in recent days.

Katrina allowed herself to be lead to an embroidered floral yellow velvet couch. She sat rather roughly to hide her frustration at Abraham's abstraction and the fact this visit had nothing to do with her or her family's health. _How blind you are to what is so plain as the nose on your face_, she thought angrily. Abraham sat a discrete distance from her, but close enough to keep her hand in his.

Slowly, Katrina withdrew her fingers from him and unfastened the chain behind her neck, "Abraham, you are an amazing man and I am honored you find such fancy in me."

Abraham frowned in confusion watching her, "How could I not be so enamored? You are a rare jewel in this outpost of wilderness!"

"I wish to discuss our engagement." Katrina said plainly, now holding the necklace in her closed palm. She saw beads of sweat forming at the edge of that perfectly powdered wig; the kind of adornment that Ichabod would never wear. That thought almost brought a coy smile to her lip but she fought it back.

"And what of it?" Abraham's tone changed as his grey eyes clouded with storms.

"I – I would like to revoke my consent. I cannot marry you, Abraham." she said, her voice quiet and firm. She placed the necklace in his open hand and curled his fingers around it. The mirror across the room was a silent witness. Katrina seemed to loom larger before the shocked Abraham, the air almost visibly crackling with her witches energy.

The air was sucked out of Abraham's chest as if a huge void opened in Hell and pulled it from him. Struck speechless, he rose from the couch and turned his back to her as Katrina's eyes followed him, the necklace chain dangling from his fingers. Wiping his palm over his face, he pivoted to look at her hands out stretched, " Why? Why my Dear? Is it some one else? Was it me? What shall you ask of me? Anything is what I would do for you!"

Katrina looked briefly at her lap and then up at the tormented Abraham. She inhaled carefully, "No, my Abraham. It is not you at all or anyone else. It is myself. I am not who you need now and I would not make you a proper wife."

Abraham's face colored red and it was vibrant in contrast to his white wig, "Appearances be damned!" he raged, "I do not care what others think what is proper, or if you are only a Quaker!"

Katrina's eyes flashed like emeralds at that comment, "I am only a Quaker? The truth comes to light! I am sorry, _my Lordship_, I do not _please you_." Her tone was cutting as she stood up to leave. His head turned as if she had slapped him. Striding towards the door she responded, "Our business is done here. Good day."

"Katrina, wait." Abraham said, his tone repentant, reaching out toward her but he did not step forward, "I did not mean to offend."

She paused at the door and turned back slightly to glance at him, "It is best that our true natures are revealed before we make vows we cannot live up to before God or man. Good day, Abraham."

The doorway was empty now as he heard the swish of her skirts retreating down the hallway of his home.

Clenching his fists violently and feeling the chain of the necklace cut his skin, he hurled it ferociously at the mirror across the room with a roar. The emerald struck the glass perfectly and shattered it into thousands of pieces. Breathing heavily as if he had just run a footrace and feeling vaguely sick, he felt his heart looked like the mirror, broken and un-repairable.

"Sir! Are you alright?" his butler appeared in the doorway looking worriedly at his employer.

Abraham calmed himself as best he could and straightened the brocade at the edges of his coat, "Yes. Yes. Just an accident. Have this cleaned up at once." The butler nodded and quickly disappeared.

Looking at the once majestic mirror, he noticed large jagged edges clung to the frame and reflected Abraham; his face was missing from the fractured pieces.


End file.
